


Apart, but together under the same sky

by Multifandom_damnation



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Compare and Contrast, Fear of Death, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Loneliness, Missing Scene, Randomness, Return of the King
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation
Summary: Merry and Pippin have never been too far away from each other in all their lives, but now one is in Gondor and one is in Rohan, both on the edge of an encroaching storm, hoping that the other would be alright without him.
Relationships: Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Apart, but together under the same sky

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know why I wrote this?? I'm about to tell you how terrible I am. I watched all the LOTR movies for the first time at the beginning of this year (I know! But they came out the year I was born and my parents could never have known that I would become such a nerd!) and I'm currently in the middle of the first book too! I mean, it's really good, but it's so long and so slow compared to the movies?? Like, I'm loving it, but everything happens within the first twenty minutes of the movie, whereas I'm 8 chapters in and they haven't even gotten to the laughing pony yet. I've been reading it all damn year! And who is Tom Bombadil?? He is?? So damn cool?? 
> 
> Anyway, I was just saying that recently my TV station played the LOTR movies every Saturday so I got to properly watch them (I kind of rushed the first time through) and I noticed this comparison between Aragon comforting Merry and Gandalf comforting Pippin, and I just really wanted to write a comparison between them. I don't know. Merry and Pippin have been my faves when I only knew the memes haha, so I just really wanted to write this. It's my first fic in this fandom (despite trying to write another one with Boromir during my first watch through) so I really hope that you guys like this, even though it could probably have turned out much better.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragon sees the tiny blur of a hobbit rush through the town and bolt up to the watchtower, pushing soldiers and guards out of the way in his haste, and without thinking, Aragon follows him, copying his movements and irritating the poor men pushed out of the way for the second time.

He catches up to him at the top of the highest turret, Merry’s face pressed through the broken slats of the wooden barrier, gripping them so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He watches Merry watch as Shadowfax and his riders shrink into an indecipherable white speck and disappear into the horizon.

Neither Aragon nor Marry says anything as the gates to Rohan close and the people go back to their business, and the Riders return to their steeds. Merry stands terribly still, his hands gripping the rails so tightly that Aragon fears they may snap like twigs, but knows that to try and remove them would be to receive a bite for his troubles.

“Do not fear, Merry,” Aragon says once they’ve been standing alone up there for too long. “Gandalf will look after him. He is in good hands.”

“But he shouldn’t _have_ to be with Gandalf,” Merry says, sounding close to screaming or crying or any manner of things. “ _I_ should be looking after him. Not Gandalf.”

Sighing, Aragon places a heavy hand on Merry’s shoulder. “I understand you’re upset, but right now, he is safest with Gandalf.”

Under his hand, Merry grows stiff but thankfully doesn’t pull away. “Why does he always have to be so…?” He trails off, searching for the right word.

“Curious?” Aragon supplies.

“Foolish,” Merry finishes dully, and Aragon has to smile. Even in moments of stress and hardship, the hobbits always have such a refreshing sense of humour. He presses his forehead against the wooden slats as his eyes strain against the sun, desperate for any sight of the white horse, the wizard in a pointy hat and the little hobbit in his lap. 

Down below, a startled horse whinnies and a Rider chides it. Children run in subdued excitement between the legs of adults as the men slowly ready themselves for the upcoming battle, and the women allow their children to have one last moment of peace before their families are torn apart forever. Gimli and Legolas bicker loudly in the distance, but the citizens of Rohan have long since grown accompanied to their ceaseless squabbling. Aragon knows that there is much work to be done, but he also knows that a few moments to comfort a friend in need isn’t going to be a detriment to the many tasks at hand for the oncoming war.

“I _told_ him,” Merry hisses as he thumps his head against the slats, but Aragon has known him for a long time now and knows that Merry is fearfully afraid and painfully concerned and that if Aragon could see his eyes, they would be shinning with unshed tears that Merry would rather perish than let fall. “I _told_ him not to _look_. Why didn’t he _listen_? He _never_ listens.”

Aragon squeezes his shoulder, looks down to see Eowyn and Eomer watching them quietly as they brush the mane of an anxious steed, and soldiers collecting weapons from the smithy. “It will be fine, Merry. Gandalf will keep him safe, and Gondor is a secure stronghold. It will not fall so easily, regardless of what Sauron believes.”

“But what if we’re wrong, Aragon?” Merry demands, sounding surprisingly angry, righteously so. “What if Gandalf and Pippin are riding towards the most dangerous place in all of Middle Earth? What if something goes wrong? What if I never see Pippin again? What if he dies and I-”

“Enough of that now,” Aragon interrupts lightly, and Merry’s words falter off into nothing. “You have more sense than to delve into anxious ramblings, Merry. You said so yourself to Pippin when he left- you will see each other again. Sooner than you think.”

Merry shakes his head. “I only told him that to comfort him. He doesn’t understand the severity of what's at stake. He still thinks that we’re back in the Shire and that when he wakes up tomorrow, everything is going to be the same as it was. But it won't be. It will never be the same again, but he’s too young and immature and innocent to understand that yet. I never wanted any of this to happen to him. I hope that I will see him soon, but knowing what I know and having been through what I have… I am no longer so sure.”

“Well, if reuniting with Pippin is the thought that weighs heaviest on your mind,” Aragon says kindly, squeezing Merry’s shoulder in the most comforting way he can. "Then I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to ensure that happens. I swear it.”

The words don’t tear Merry’s eyes away from the horizon, but they do seem to make his back straighter, and his heart a little lighter as he finally removes his face from the gap in the gate, though doesn’t release his grip on it. “I’m afraid that’s not something you can guarantee.”

“Alright then,” Aragon relents. “In that case, I promise that I will do my best.”

That does the trick- slowly, Merry extracts himself from the wall and lowers his hands in fists to his side, his face resolute and almost brazen in the intense flare of determination that burns now in his eyes. “I want to fight, Aragon. I want to fight in this war and not stand on the sidelines while the rest of you risk your lives and many of you are killed.”

That alone forces Aragon to meet Eomer’s eyes, almost as if the Rider could sense the topic of conversation, glancing away quickly before any information can be gleaned. “Oh Merry,” Aragon sighs, at the risk of sounding flippant and sceptical. It’s not that Aragon doubts Merry, and he knows that the hobbits have a surprising amount of determination and a fearful lack of self-preservation that occasionally turns out for the better, but he knows that Merry has scarcely held a sword much less fought in a war, and knows that even if Merry were an accomplished fighter, Eomer would never allow him to join the Riders and that King Theoden would do the sensible thing and refuse to waste a steed for a hobbit that would not last the night. “You have heart, I will give you that, but let's not think of such matters this moment. We have a long while yet before we ride for war. Do not waste your strength on worrying about such things.”

“Aragon,” Merry’s voice is as stern and resolute as Aragon often suspects expects from him now, and as he turns away, he shuts his eyes in preparation. “I want to _fight_.”

Nodding, Aragon pats Merry on the shoulder. “Than you should speak to Eomer or even the King. We shall see what they decide, and if they agree to let you come along, then I would be more than proud to fight by your side.”

Hesitantly, Aragon leaves him there, contemplating the oncoming battle and staring out at the horizon as if that white horse carrying Pippin would reappear just as suddenly as it had left.

* * *

The bright beacon of ghostly green energy lights up the night sky, and instinctively, Gandalf reaches a hand down and wraps it around the shoulders of the young hobbit standing by his side. 

Pippin's eyes are understandably wide and he clings onto the stone balustrade of the castle as the ghostly light reflects in his eyes. The hobbit is still and trembling beneath his hand, and Gandalf wishes, not for the first time, that he was far away from this darkness, and that he was safe and unchanged back in the Shire. 

“What are we going to do now, Gandalf?” Pippin asks. His voice is terribly quiet and painfully small, and Gandalf is reminded once again that this is the first time Pippin- or any of those poor, brave hobbits- has ever left the safety of the Shire, and has been thrust into one of the worst wars in history. 

“Well, my dear hobbit, we do what anyone in our situation would do,” Gandalf says. “We fight in the oncoming war, and we hope that we survive it long enough for Frodo to complete his task.”

“I don’t know about you, Gandalf, but I’ve never fought in any wars,” Pippin says. “I’ve barely ever held a sword. I don’t know how to fight.”

Chuckling, Gandalf pats Pippin’s shoulder, but Pippin keeps his eyes focused on the blinding, sickly light out in the distance. “Now, that’s not true now, is it? I watched you, down in the depths of the mines of Moria. You fought bravely to protect Frodo and our fellowship and even risked your own health to leap onto the back of that cave troll. Though you have never fought in a war, your bravery and your courage precedes you. I believe you have more fight in you than you think.”

He expects Pippin to smile, maybe, or to look up and laugh and crack one of those jokes he always does to lighten the mood, but Pippin’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, and he looks so much younger than he had at Bilbo’s birthday party, his face covered in soot and his hair singed and a grin on his face as the fireworks make the sky ignite in wonderful colours. “I’m afraid, Gandalf.”

“Good,” Gandalf nods. “You should be. If you weren’t, I’d be very concerned. All men fear the act of war, and if they do not, then their eagerness and confidence are misplaced.”

“Does it get any better?” Pippin asks, finally looking up from the beam of light. “Does the feeling lessen?”

Gandalf sighs. It has been a long time since he has had to explain war to anyone, been many centuries since he has fought beside anyone but the most experienced warriors, of elves and dwarves and even men. “This dread you feel is the waiting. The calm before the storm. The fighting is the easy part, but sitting around and waiting for the action, for the death and blood and the violence is always the most frightening bit.”

When Pippin lowers his head, his mop of curly hair hides his face and Gandalf is unable to see his expression, but he can hear the pain and fear in his face all the same. “Do you think I’ll be able to see Merry soon?”

“Possibly,” Gandalf says, but he knows better than to give him hope. Pippin’s face falls, and he realizes that he had wished to hear better news. “Do not fret- he is well looked after with Aragon, and even when our fellowship charges out to battle Sauron’s army, young Eowyn will care for him. He is in very safe and very capable hands back at Rohan.”

Frowning deeply, Pippin has to stand on his toes to fold his arms over the stone balcony and rest his chin on them to stare out over the slowly awakening citizens of Gondor. Somehow, he manages to both look terribly young and incredibly old at the same time, like his fearful eyes hold an innocence to them that says that he is still hopeful that the war would pass them without casualties, yet his mouth is pressed into a hard line and his shoulders hold a weight that Gandalf has only seen in the most seasoned of warriors. “I miss him already,” Pippin says sadly. “This is the longest and farthest I’ve ever been away from him. All my life, you know, even before we were born, he was by my side. Always. I’m not quite sure how to go on without him here, telling me what I’m doing wrong and to keep my mouth shut.”

Chuckling, Gandalf wraps his hands around his staff. “Change is coming for all of us, Master Pippin. How you deal with it is up to you. If you want my advice, change is to be embraced and encouraged, and the only way for people to grow is to change.”

“Like vegetables,” Pippin smiles. “Or trees."

“Very much so, yes,” Gandalf agrees. “Change is growth, and to grow, things must change. You would not be here right now, on the verge of the greatest battle of a generation, if you had not left your home in the Shire and adventures outside those walls.”

“You say it like it’s a good thing, but I’m not so sure I agree with you,” Pippin says. Down below, the mood is sombre, but children are giggling as a kind soldier tells them tales around a fire, and mothers wash their husband's clothes one last time and men sharpen their blades and watch their families before the battle begins. “Gandalf?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t want to fight in this war.”

Gandalf sighs so heavily that he feels his bones creak with the force of it. He reaches a down to rest a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, and thinks better of it, and lets it fall to his side. “No, I can’t believe why you would. No smart man wants to unless that man craves noting but death and violence. I have learned that hobbits are not that sort. But you will be safe here, behind the walls of Gondor. This city… Denethor may be a petulant fool, but his city has never fallen, and I doubt it will fall yet. Do not fight unless you must, but I believe that you will know what to do when the time is right.”

The look on Pippin’s face is downtrodden, and he turns his gaze back to the blinding beacon of sickly green light that turns the night to day. “I hope Merry is alright. I would wish to see him again, should we both survive this battle. I want to thank him for taking care of me for so long with little complaint, and maybe return the favor.”

This time, Gandalf does rest his hand on Pippin’s shoulder, and Pippin surprisingly leans against Gandalf’s side, swallowed by his long white robes, browning at the ends from sweeping across the dirt. “As do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many negative thoughts about this fic, but Merry's part is much better than Pippin's part, so I hope you guys don't hold that against me too much. Gandalf is so hard to write! I know that this is a really bad fic, but I'm so sick of looking at it, so I hope it's not too bad to read x
> 
> And if anyone could tell me anything about Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, I would love you forever.


End file.
